That is Swanston Cottage, where my brother and I are
living with my aunt. If it gives you pleasure to see it, I am
glad. We, too, can see the castle from a corner in the garden, and
we go there in the morning often--do we not, Ronald?--and we think
of you, M. de Saint-Yves; but I am afraid it does not altogether
make us glad.'

'Mademoiselle!' said I, and indeed my voice was scarce under
command, 'if you knew how your generous words--how even the sight
of you--relieved the horrors of this place, I believe, I hope, I
know, you would be glad. I will come here daily and look at that
dear chimney and these green hills, and bless you from the heart,
and dedicate to you the prayers of this poor sinner. Ah! I do not
say they can avail!'

'Who can say that, M. de Saint-Yves?' she said softly. 'But I
think it is time we should be going.'

'High time,' said Ronald, whom (to say the truth) I had a little
forgotten.

On the way back, as I was laying myself out to recover lost ground
with the youth, and to obliterate, if possible, the memory of my
last and somewhat too fervent speech, who should come past us but
the major? I had to stand aside and salute as he went by, but his
eyes appeared entirely occupied with Flora.

'Who is that man?' she asked.

'He is a friend of mine,' said I. 'I give him lessons in French,
and he has been very kind to me.'

'He stared,' she said,--'I do not say, rudely; but why should he
stare?'

'If you do not wish to be stared at, mademoiselle, suffer me to
recommend a veil,' said I.

She looked at me with what seemed anger. 'I tell you the man
stared,' she said.

And Ronald added. 'Oh, I don't think he meant any harm. I suppose
he was just surprised to see us walking about with a pr--with M.
Saint-Yves.'

But the next morning, when I went to Chevenix's rooms, and after I
had dutifully corrected his exercise--'I compliment you on your
taste,' said he to me.

'I beg your pardon?' said I.

'Oh no, I beg yours,' said he. 'You understand me perfectly, just
as I do you.'

I murmured something about enigmas.

'Well, shall I give you the key to the enigma?' said he, leaning
back. 'That was the young lady whom Goguelat insulted and whom you
avenged. I do not blame you. She is a heavenly creature.'

'With all my heart, to the last of it!' said I. 'And to the first
also, if it amuses you! You are become so very acute of late that
I suppose you must have your own way.'

'What is her name?' he asked.

'Now, really!' said I. 'Do you think it likely she has told me?'

'I think it certain,' said he.

I could not restrain my laughter. 'Well, then, do you think it
likely I would tell you?' I cried.

'Not a bit.' said he. 'But come, to our lesson!'

CHAPTER VI--THE ESCAPE

The time for our escape drew near, and the nearer it came the less
we seemed to enjoy the prospect. There is but one side on which
this castle can be left either with dignity or safety; but as there
is the main gate and guard, and the chief street of the upper city,
it is not to be thought of by escaping prisoners. In all other
directions an abominable precipice surrounds it, down the face of
which (if anywhere at all) we must regain our liberty. By our
concurrent labours in many a dark night, working with the most
anxious precautions against noise, we had made out to pierce below
the curtain about the south-west corner, in a place they call the
Devil's Elbow. I have never met that celebrity; nor (if the rest
of him at all comes up to what they called his elbow) have I the
least desire of his acquaintance. From the heel of the masonry,
the rascally, breakneck precipice descended sheer among waste
lands, scattered suburbs of the city, and houses in the building.
I had never the heart to look for any length of time--the thought
that I must make the descent in person some dark night robbing me
of breath; and, indeed, on anybody not a seaman or a steeple-jack,
the mere sight of the Devil's Elbow wrought like an emetic.